


Dean's Girl

by Himrqwerty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe No Hunting, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I'm a terrible person, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, original character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-06 23:03:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1875822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himrqwerty/pseuds/Himrqwerty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Dean has a girlfriend, and when he finds out her deepest secret, he's heartbroken. Things... escalate. Minimal Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I step into the shower, the too-hot water instantly turning my body red and painful. It feels good though, soothes me a bit, and as I adjust, I don’t move to clean myself.

Instead, I reach for the one thing that I swore off a couple months after first kissing Dean, after I got myself clean. Still, I never had the heart to throw away the razor blade, it had taken forever to find the perfect one and then find the best way to sharpen it to perfection; if I ever sliced a bit too deep, stitching myself up would be easy. 

There is a little compartment that I made myself carved into the very back of the shower. I had cut into it with a scalpel that I stole while in the hospital and hollowed out a small cave, just three inches by three inches. I had carefully built a small plastic drawer that fit into it perfectly and glued the small piece of plastic from the shower to the front. I had then slid it in and repainted the spot. I’m still proud of that. It had taken almost three weeks but you can’t tell it’s even there if you aren’t looking for the small white tab used to pull it open.

It fits my blade perfectly, leaving enough room for padding to assure the edges stayed sharp.

I slid it open for the first time in a while. Seeing the blade there brought about a rush, reminding me what actually slicing my skin, watching the blood well up and pour out, the sting, the raw pain. It made me feel clean. I missed cutting so much.

I stood there, naked, under the water for just a little longer, tracing the numerous scars that littered my thighs, remembering the two or three I had to sew up when I lost control, just that once.

Stopping at a small one, just a half inch long, I can’t help but remember the first time Dean came over. He had seen them then, and that night was the last time I cut, till now at least.

I had slid on shorts that came halfway down my thigh, shorts I only wore when it was just me. I had been reading, keeping the book open with one hand, the other absentmindedly tracing the scars revealed by my small shorts.

There had been a knock on the door, and before I had had time to pull on real pants, or a blanket at least, Dean had let himself in, and there was nothing I could do now without arousing suspicion.

“Hey, babe! I didn’t know you were coming over tonight!” I had said cheerfully, trying to not freak out.

“Yeah, sorry for not calling. It was a long day and I’m really too tired to drive; your place is closer than mine so I’d thought I’d crash here for the night, if that’s ok?” Dean had asked, and he really had looked tired.

‘Course babe. You know this place is as much yours as it is mine. No big. How about you head to bed before you collapse and I’ll be up in a minute, ok?” I had asked, hoping beyond hope Dean’s tiredness would make him not notice a lot of things, but it was Dean. Of course he had.

“What’s wrong?” Dean had asked, seeing the worry in my face through his exhaustion, even with me masking it the best I could, resisting the urge to trace my scars as I usually did to calm myself, as that would only draw attention to them. 

There had been so many things wrong there - first of all, I had been wearing shorts, which was stupid, second, it had been too bright, too bright, bright, and it had made it easier to spot my thighs. Lastly, there had been Dean. He always knew when something was screwy with me, just as he did his little brother.

“Nothing,” I had told Dean, opting to run my tongue over my teeth instead of my scars. “Work was just long and my boss - well, you know how he gets - and the coffee pot wasn’t working. He threw it, almost hit me. I guess I’m still a little shaken up.” I had told him, which was only a half-lie, that had happened, but it wasn’t what was wrong, per se.

“Nuh-uh.” He had denied the second it left my mouth. “Tell me what’s wrong. Now.” He had demanded, and started to get actually worried if it was bad enough to lie about.

‘Dammit, Dean, can’t you just leave well enough alone?’ I had cursed to myself. “Really, Dean. That’s it. I’ll be fine, go to bed.” I had said, setting my jaw stubbornly. 

Dean had sighed, knowing he would never get a real answer when I looked like that, or when he was so tired.

Instead of arguing, he leaned in to kiss me.

Now, this is where it really went wrong.

He had put his hands on my thighs, helped support himself while we kissed. I had been too busy trying to convince him I was ok with the kiss that the pain of his palms on my fresh cuts didn’t register, or Dean stroking my thigh with his thumb, running it over a cut on top of a scar, feeling it, and freezing. He had started to run his finger over it again and again, as if trying to convince himself it wasn’t real, that I was ok.

He had pulled away, eyes shining with tears and something I had never seen before on him, at least not directed at me. He had been furious. Shaking, he had looked ready to kill someone. I’d only ever seen him wear that look when someone hurt Sammy, the one person Dean really cared about in this world.

Through gritted teeth, Dean had managed to ask me where they came from, who had done this to me.

I hadn’t answered, just whimpered a bit when he wasn’t calming down, when my thighs had started to bleed again, and Dean had just look so angry, so almost scared, that I was almost crying.

I still remember the look he gave me, the look had been so filled with agony, like I had just sliced his thighs open again and again until they matched mine, which maybe in a way I had.

“Why?” He had asked, his voice filled with pain and worry, one that he only ever used for those he loved most. 

And in that brief moment, I had felt so warm and loved - like maybe I was one of the ones he loved most - but I had dismissed the thought and the warm feeling that had filled me at the thought of Dean loving me back.

That night, I had promised him to never cut again, that I would always come to him if I felt down enough to cut.

And I had, when it got bad. Eventually, though, the frequency of the times I had called Dean in the middle of the night sobbing, the itch in my fingers insatiable, had lowered until I called him just to say ‘I love you’, but I never had actually said the words.

And neither had he.

I shake my head clear of the almost happy memory. That warmth that had filled me was the closest to happiness I’ve been in a long time, but now - now I was worse, the depression hit me hard, the eating disorder came along with, and my blade was never far behind.

I sit down on the shower floor with a thump, sobs racking my body. When did it come to this? I asked myself desperately. I had been so good, so good. Clean.

‘I need punishment. For coming back to this.’ I tell myself. I lift the hand with the deadly razor and slash, once, twice, three times, then again and again, until there are fifteen slashes covering my thighs, decorating them in my favorite way.

I feel better now. I always do, like a little bit of the darkness in me left with all the blood.

I sit under the pounding spray for a little longer, until I seem to wake up from a long trance, staring down at what I’ve done to myself again with horror. I scramble to my feet and gently replace my blade.

After carefully rinsing and inspecting my wounds and determining them to be not too deep, sit back down in the corner of the shower, sobbing deeply.

Allowing myself that moment of pity was the second mistake in an hour.

Dean hears.


	2. Chapter Two

Two Hours Later

“Look, you’re awesome. You’ve saved my life more times than I can count. You make the best pie, and you manage to make me laugh. Fucking laugh! How many people can do that except Sammy? Not very many. Just you, really. You aren’t worthless. I promise.” He reassures me, leaning against the table, eyes boring into my soul.

I turn my head away, not able to stand his piercing eyes, unable to keep the tears at bay any longer, the self-hate overwhelming me for just a second, and a single tear slips out.

“Hey,” He says softly. “Look at me.” He commands, and when I fail to obey, he lifts his hand and takes my chin gently in his calloused hand, forcing me to do as he says.

Not moving his hand, he searches me with those beautiful eyes. I still can’t look at him. I don’t want him to see my weakness, the pain that I can’t hide anymore. 

Dean slides his hand up my face, cradling my cheek in his palm. I lean into his reassuring touch, biting my lip harshly to keep from crying.

His right hand slowly comes up to my neck, like he’s touching a wild animal that might bite him, careful to avoid my thighs. He leans in, and for the first time in a long time, his soft lips touch mine. The kiss is filled with pain and need and loss, but something else too. Something I don’t want to think about, not now, and maybe not ever.

Breaking the gentle kiss, our foreheads lean together, breath mixing.

“Do you understand now?” Dean asks me.

‘No,’ Is what I want to shout. ‘I don’t understand how you could love me still, after all I’ve done, and how you can be so blind to see that I’m no good for you, and that you deserve so much better than I could ever give you. I don’t understand, and I never will. I think I’ve just given up,’ 

I don’t say those things though, instead opting to shrug and give him the best smile I can while all my thoughts are jumbled and painful, the kiss still lingering on my lips like a persistent cold.

Dean purses his lips, but takes my word for it- ‘Thank god’ - and stands up, pressing a kiss to my still-damp hair, going inside.


	3. Chapter 3

My rate of cutting is going up. 

Dean is going out more.

He’s avoiding me.

I don’t blame him.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean came over. He saw me wearing all long sleeves, put down a first aid kit, and left.

I haven’t talked to him in a long time.

I thought about death today. It was the first time. Ever. It scared me so bad I almost spilled my coffee. Almost called Dean too, but I chickened out at last minute.

The more I think about it though, the less it seems like a bad idea. I don’t mind the thought of dying that much. Dean is the only one who would care, but obviously not anymore.

We haven’t talked in months.


	5. Chapter 5

He came home today. 

I was in the shower, putting away my blade when he came in. I heard him stomping around in his heavy work boots and wanted to cry. I forgot how much comfort they brought me, how they reminded me that the only solidity I have in my life is Dean, Dean and my blade.

I almost turned off the water in hopes he wouldn’t hear it, wouldn’t know I was home, but I knew he did. I just rinsed off and stepped out. 

He came in when I was drying my hair. He used to do it on purpose, come in when my ass was in the air, my hair covering my face. He used to slap my ass, not hard or anything, but it was a comfort, knowing he loved me.

Well. 

I hoped he loved me.

When he came in this time, I thought he was gonna leave. Shut the door and walk out.

He didn’t, but he didn’t slap me either.

When I stood up, he had a clear view of my thighs, new and old cuts on display. His eyes filled with pain, and for just a second, I could believe he loved me.

His mouth opened and closed like fish on dry land, but instead of saying anything, he kissed the top of my head and walked out, shoulders slouched, feet dragging.

I sat down on the toilet, and I haven’t moved.


	6. Chapter 6

A couple days after Dean last came home, I call Sam. I can’t sit here and not know if he loved me.

When it stops ringing, it isn’t Sam. 

It was Dean.

He didn’t say a word, just gave the phone to Sam. 

I’m crying again. I started crying again.

“Sam? Sam, I know he probably hates me and I know that he regrets ever loving me, but will you tell him that I always loved him and I always will, and that I’m sorry for dumping all of my pathetic problem onto him, and will you tell him that he doesn’t have to worry about me anymore? Please?” I’m choking over my words, my decision made.

“Sweetheart, sweetie, what? Look, I’ll tell him, but you need to calm down and explain what’s going on. Please.” Sam sounded concerned, and that just cemented my idea.

“I can’t. But you have to tell him, ok? Thanks, I’ve, uh, I’ve gotta go. Bye.” I hang up in a rush, running to get things ready.

I fill the bathtub halfway with hot water and pull out my blade.

I sit down in the tub, breathing shallowly.

“Can I do this?” I ask myself. “Am I really ready to die?”

I ponder that thought for a few minutes before “Yes.”

I don’t plan on waking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... there should only be a few more chapters of this. Maybe one or two? I'm moving this over from ff.net cause it's a bitch and I hate using it.


	7. Almost Done!

It’s harder than I thought. Everytime I bring down this shitty piece of metal, I see the pain in Dean’s eyes, and I think of how hard he worked to get me out of this the first time. I remember when we cuddled because I was shaking in withdrawal from pain, and how he would back away when I felt suffocated. 

I haven’t even made one mark on my skin since I called Sam. I’m not sure I can, despite this thing in me that wants to die and wants to escape this hellish life. There’s another something in me that remembers how it was never hellish with Dean. How it was bright and happy, even when I came out as asexual, and how after that, it was even brighter.

Sometime in my mental word-vomit, my head came to rest on my drawn up knees and my eyes shut. I my lids from my iris’ and glance at the clock. It’s been forty five minutes, and if I’d just committed, I’d probably be dead by now. If I hadn’t chickened out, if I hadn’t...

I cut off the mental tidal wave before it distracts me further.

I... I can do this. 

I can take care of the beast ripping its way out of its own esophagus. I’ve always thought there was a sort of monster in me, but I’ve figured out it’s just me. I’m the monster, my ability to hurt those who I love fueling the monster.

No more.

I can do this.

I can.

I raise the blade to my wrist, unable to push down the sour taste of something wrong there’s something wrong somethingwrong somethingwrongsomethingwrong

Despite my spidey-senses tingling, I push and then drag and it burns like nothing I’ve ever felt.

This isn’t like cutting this isn’t like anything but death. If death feels like one thing, this must be it. I feel my heart pumping blood in a valiant effort to keep me alive, but the harder it pumps, the more blood I lose, the heart failing no matter what it does.

It’s a sort of twisted poetry, isn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to write the ending and post it tonight, then it'll be done!!


	8. Not What You'd Expect From A Shitty Stereotypical Fanfiction I Guess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm a terrible person

I’d like to tell you that Dean came crashing in just in the nick of time to not only stem the bleeding and get me to the hospital and miraculously get me out of this fucking rut.

I’d like to tell you that the page I’m writing this on isn’t blood smeared and tissue spread.

I’d like to tell you that I’m normal, so I didn’t ask Dean to post my journal on some stupid website.

I’d like to tell you that this whole story was a lie and to go back to your lives.

Really. I’d like to. If I was a better person, I’d lie to you. Right to your face.

I’m not a good person.

I’m also dead, so fuck you.

If there is one thing my actually rather relieving death should tell you is that no matter what, giving up on someone isn’t an option. Dean, you motherfucking piece of shit asshole, gave up on me. Stopped loving me. Stopping reminding me, at least. Stopped acting like it.

Don’t ever do that.

Love the broken.

Help the broken.

Don’t pretend to also be broken, don’t try to fix the broken, but love them, and let them fix themselves.


End file.
